


so sure, so connected

by pdameron



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 21:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11860344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdameron/pseuds/pdameron
Summary: Baze loves the Force for its steadfastness, for its surety.It will never leave him.(what love means to Baze Malbus, throughout the years.)





	so sure, so connected

**Author's Note:**

> oh shit guess who wrote another sw fic after a million years
> 
> a big thank you to [gammadolphin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gammadolphin/pseuds/gammadolphin) for beta-ing, i adore you

He is six years old, and love is a tender thing.

Baze knows this because his father is gruff and strong and fierce, but his hands are gentle as they brush his hair off his forehead, as he lays a soft kiss on his forehead. He knows this because his father is stolid and rugged and surly, but his weathered face seems to crumple when he looks at Mama, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he pulls her close.

He asks her one night, as she is brushing out his hair, telling him another story about Jedi and lightsabers and the burning stars, why it is that Baba is so careful with them, why it is that while Baze’s own hugs are tight and squeezing, Baba’s are soft and fleeting. She tells him that love, to Baba, is a precious thing, something he does not want to break with his strong hands. She tells him that they should all be tender with the things they love, that love is a special, wonderful thing.

Baze isn’t sure he understands, but Mama promises that one day he will love someone so much that his whole heart will feel full and he will want nothing more than to wrap them up and hide them from the world, until nothing bad will ever come to them.

Baze says “But I love _you_ , Mama,” and she smiles and she kisses him and she tucks him in and she tells him to go to sleep.

  


*****

  


He is ten years old, and love is a quiet thing.

Baze loves his parents in the dark, when he is alone in his room in the Kyber Temple and he has nothing to do but remember them.  He loves them in an aching, wistful way, and he imagines in the still silence of the night that they have become the stars, scattered in the sky above him and guiding all who look to them. It is a comforting thought, one he keeps to himself.

Their deaths were not quiet. Sometimes he still hears the explosions, the yelling, his mother’s screams for him to _run, Baze, run and hide_ as dark smoke and red fire took their home, took their village. He keeps this to himself, too.

Baze doesn’t talk much anymore. The monks poke and prod, and while he is smart and capable and devout, he is still quiet. It took nearly a month for them to even pry Baze’s name out of him, after he wandered onto the Temple grounds two years ago, covered in soot and blood that wasn’t his, dead on his feet, and even then it was a hushed whisper, barely audible.

And still, he loves.

Baze loves the guardians. They took him in, kept him warm, gave him food. They are patient with him, and kind-hearted, and they took his grief and his anger and gave him peace. Or, as much peace as he could manage.

He especially loves Elder Turon, who let hims hide in the Temple’s library when the noise of the other pupils grew too much for him to bear, when their joyful songs and games remind him too much of a childhood long since lost. The elder does not chide him for his self-imposed solitude, nor does he push for words that do not come so easily to Baze, like the other, well-intentioned monks.

Through Elder Turon’s lessons, Baze learns to love the Force.

It’s a quiet presence, like him; something Baze can love without pretense, without the pressure to be anything but his withdrawn, introverted self.

Elder Turon tells him that the through the Force they can find balance, find harmony; that it surrounds them, in every living thing. Baze likes this idea, likes to imagine the Force wrapped around him like the old, worn blanket his mother would tuck him under at bedtime. He imagines he can feel it in the air, in the wind as it sweeps across his face. He imagines that as he whispers his prayers and mantras, the Force is there, listening and watching over him.

He loves the Force for its steadfastness, for its surety.

It will never leave him.

  


 

*****

 

 

He is thirteen, and love is laughter.

Baze knows this because there is a boy now who laughs at everything, who spreads cheer throughout the temple simply by _being_ , who effortlessly lifts the spirits of those around him. The boy, Chirrut, has no shortage of friends, of companions to spar with, to study with, but it is Baze who he seeks out.

Baze doesn’t know what to make of Chirrut; this animated, joyful, blind boy who has decided to be his friend.  He doesn’t know what Chirrut wants from him. He knows he has a reputation among his peers: the quiet Baze Malbus, a kind if taciturn acolyte, dedicated and devoted to his studies and to the Temple itself. He knows that he’s nobody’s choice for a good time, and yet here Chirrut is, every day.

Baze asks him, eventually, why it is that Chirrut chooses to spend so much time with him. Chirrut’s response is something of a surprise.

He tells Baze about the other pupils, who both envy and admire his bond with the Kyber. He tells Baze about the masters and grandmasters who find him fascinating, who marvel at his intuition when it comes to the Force. He tells Baze about being ‘the blind prodigy’, about the way the others make him feel like a spectacle at times. Most importantly, he tells him that he likes to spend time with the quiet boy simply because Baze does not seem to care one way or another about Chirrut’s gifts.

Baze tells Chirrut that makes him sound like an ass. Chirrut laughs.

After that it’s easier to spend time with Chirrut. Baze knows better than most at the Temple what it’s like to feel pressured to be more than what you are.

Still, he finds himself a bit disappointed that Chirrut only seems to like him for his reservedness, and not for the other parts of himself. But again, the other boy surprises him.

It takes some time, but eventually he grows more comfortable with him, and begins to participate in their (until now mostly one-sided) conversations. The first time he really talks, Chirrut gives him this little pleased smile, like Baze has given him some sort of gift. The first time Baze throws a sarcastic remark his way, Chirrut’s shocked laugh stays with him the rest of the day. Soon enough, their easy companionship becomes a full-blown friendship, and the two are near inseparable.

Baze gains a new hobby: making Chirrut laugh.

It quickly becomes his favorite sound. Baze finds himself coming out of his shell more and more, just to make the other boy laugh. He lets himself be silly, be a child again, if in his own, more subdued way. He describes the world he sees to Chirrut, joking and teasing when he can. Eventually, he stops worrying about whether or not others can hear him as he does it.

He spends his days making Chirrut laugh, but it is Baze who finds himself happier than ever. Chirrut can’t see his smiles, yet somehow the other boy always knows when his antics make the older boy crack a grin, can always hear his muffled giggles.

Sometimes, when Chirrut is laughing particularly hard, when he’s clutching his sides and leaning against him for support, Baze feels something warm spread through his chest, feels a flutter in his stomach. He doesn’t know what to make of that, but he knew he doesn’t want it to stop.

He loves Chirrut: he’s the first and best friend he’s ever had.

  
  


*****

 

 

He is seventeen, and love is a gentle touch.

As is the case with most things, it starts with Chirrut. Surely, Baze thinks, after all these years, Chirrut must know his way around the Temple grounds. Surely, he doesn’t truly need Baze to guide him. Surely, he doesn’t have to hold his arm as they walk through the courtyard and down the halls, linking their arms together, as if they are two gossipy old women going for an evening stroll. Baze thinks that all these things surely must be true, but he won’t bring it up, not ever, because then Chirrut might stop, and that is the last thing he wants.

He loves the way Chirrut curls his fingers around his bicep, the way he’ll occasionally tap them in an absentminded rhythm against his skin. He loves the way Chirrut will tug on his sleeve, ever so slightly, to get his attention, the way he pulls on Baze’s arm to bring him close and whisper in his ear. He especially loves that he is the only one Chirrut does this with.

Most nights, Chirrut will come to Baze’s room, to read. Or rather, to have Baze read to him. The first time Baze offered to do this, clutching an old book of Rylothian tales he’d found in the archives, hesitant to overstep, Chirrut had frozen. Then, he’d beamed, beatific and beautiful. _There aren’t many braille books in the archives_ , he’d said, _and I missed reading_ , he’d said, and _sometimes the others forgot about the small things I cannot do_ , he’d said.

And so Baze reads to him, in the evening after their lessons have finished, when it is just he and Chirrut and the dim glow of the lamp on his bedside table. Despite the many ways in which Chirrut has brought him out of his shell, it is in these quiet moments that Baze is the most himself, changing his voice and intonation for each character, trying to make the other boy laugh.

He always does.

He loves reading to Chirrut, loves the way Chirrut will sidle up next to him, the two boys sitting side by side on his bunk, their arms and thighs and knees brushed up together. Every so often Chirrut will lie down and put his head in Baze’s lap. Baze loves this too. Sometimes Chirrut will rest his head on his shoulder, and Baze will feel every chuckle, every sigh, as he listens to the story.

The first time Chirrut falls asleep during their late night ritual, Baze doesn’t have the heart to wake him, instead carefully maneuvering them both until they are lying side by side, just barely touching. He sleeps better that night than he has in years. Chirrut wakes up the next morning embarrassed and flustered, apologizing profusely while he disentangles his limbs from Baze’s.

The second time Chirrut falls asleep during their late night ritual, Baze has a nightmare. He dreams of fire, of smoke, of screaming and yelling and _run, Baze, run_ , and he wakes to find Chirrut hovering over him anxiously, calling his name. _Are you alright?_ , Chirrut asks, and _Does this happen often?_ , Chirrut asks, and _What can I do?_ ,  Chirrut asks.

Baze simply holds him close, tucking his head into the crook of his friend’s neck.

Chirrut moves in.

They still read together, but now Chirrut will help Baze brush out his hair before bed, will plait it for him while he speaks. Sometimes, the stories aren’t about Rylothian princes or Jedi knights or whatever other books he can find, but Baze’s mother, who would brush his hair and hold his hand, just like Chirrut does now. Sometimes it is Chirrut who tells stories, about his village and the far away temple where he was raised.

One night, Chirrut asks if he can feel Baze’s face, if he can know for himself what his friend looks like. Baze can already feel his face start to burn, but he agrees, unable to refuse the other boy and wondering why they hadn’t bothered to do this before. Chirrut points out how “sticky-outie” his ears are, and when Baze huffs out a laugh and he touches his cheeks, he’s delighted to discover that the older boy has dimples. Chirrut pauses when he feels the scar running alongside Baze’s left eye, the one he’s had since that night, when the windows in their kitchen shattered and the glass cut him and his mother and he could barely see for all the blood and smoke.

Chirrut tells him, when he’s done, that Baze sure is ugly, and no wonder he hangs out with a blind guy all the time, and Baze laughs and laughs.

It seems only natural for him to lean forward and carefully, ever so carefully, kiss Chirrut, barely more than a gentle touch. He pulls back, and Chirrut is, for once, the one who is blushing, but his eyes are crinkled at the edges and his smile is something Baze has never seen before; something soft, something shy. Chirrut takes his hand and rubs his thumb over his palm and this is what love feels like, Baze thinks.

  


*****

  


He is twenty three, and love is an unexpected thing.

They’re full-fledged guardians now, both having made sixth duan, and they have less time than they would like to be together. They rise and eat and say their morning prayers together, and then they go their separate ways (Chirrut has long since admitted that he held on to Baze mostly as an excuse to be close to the other boy; he moves around the Temple with ease on his own).

Unsurprisingly, Chirrut has been asked to give lessons on the essence and origins of Kyber.

Unsurprisingly, Chirrut has volunteered to train the older acolytes, the ones who have not yet made sixth duan, to fight and defend the Temple if need be.

More surprising is the task assigned to Baze: watching over and teaching the younglings.

He doesn’t quite understand the Elders’ decision in their assignment until a little Camaasi girl, no older than seven, wanders into the Temple, covered in dirt and grime and weeping uncontrollably.

He is told to stay with her, take her in and give her food and a place to sleep. The Temple has no shortage of tenants, guardians and acolytes alike, but not so many that Baze cannot find a small room for the girl, where she can rest and recover in privacy. She follows him through the Temple, holding onto his robes tentatively as he searches for blankets and pillows in the storage spaces.

When they are finally settled in her new, small room, he sits next to her quietly as her tears begin anew, this time in great, heaving sobs. He does not press her for answers to the dozens of questions racing through his mind. He does not try to touch her, until she reaches out her three-fingered hand to grasp his own. Even then, he is silent.

Baze looks down at the little girl, at the tears running down over the purple fur on her cheeks, and thinks of a not too distant time, when there was a boy not much older than this child, crying and lost and all on his own; when that boy found himself surrounded by strangers, all of whom seemed too tall and too friendly and too _much_. His heart aches for this young creature, a picture of grief, whose suffering seems too close to his own.

Eventually, she cries herself out, and Baze finds himself with a lapful of Camaasi, her head nestled against his chest. He stares down at her, bemused.

What is he supposed to do now?

He tries to lift her off his lap, but she simply sniffles and burrows further into him. He decides in the end to just sit there and let her rest undisturbed, hesitantly and hopefully soothingly running his fingers through the fur on the top of her head. This is how Chirrut finds them (and he _always_ finds Baze, no matter where he is) nearly an hour later, balancing two trays in one hand and his staff in the other.

He asks Chirrut why _he_ was asked to watch her, because surely the blind man’s friendly and cheerful demeanor would have been a comfort to this sad little girl.

Chirrut sits next to him, takes Baze’s larger hand in his own, running his fingers over the now-familiar callouses and cuts. He tells Baze about the nights he’s woken up suddenly, panting and breathless and terrified, about how Baze, even in his sleep, will curl closer around him, hold him close, as if to protect. He tells Baze about the way the other man makes him feel at ease, makes him feel steady. Baze is, he says, a rock, steadfast and strong. _You make me feel safe_ , Chirrut says, and _I’m not the only one_ , he says.

“Haven’t you noticed that all the younglings come to you after they have a nightmare, or after they’ve been scolded by an elder, or after they’ve seen a scary bug?”

Baze _has_ noticed, but he’s always thought it was because he was their mentor, because he spends the most time with them of any of the older acolytes. Chirrut points out that the children have been clinging to Baze since long before they made seventh duan.

“You’re a tough man with a soft heart,” Chirrut says, running his hand through Baze’s hair. “And everyone knows it.”

The next day Baze returns to his duties, the little girl (Sareet, she’d told him this morning over breakfast) at his side and clutching his hand in a crushing, nervous grip.

As he walks into the room he’s swarmed almost immediately by twenty or so children, all clamoring to hug him and tell him about what he’d missed the day before. It is over the loud chorus of “we missed you”s and “do you want to see my drawing”s and “did you bring us a new friend to play with”s that Baze has an abrupt realization: he loves these children.

He’s always known that he was fond of them, that his affection for his charges was clear, but something about what Chirrut told him last night has made everything come into sharp focus. He adores these children, would do _anything_ to keep them safe. He would die for them, in a heartbeat.

He tells Chirrut about his little revelation that evening, to which his partner just snorts.

“Of course you love them. You love everyone. That’s why _I_ love _you_.”

 

 

*****

 

 

He is twenty-six, and love is the simple things.

Baze knows this because their honeymoon phase has long since ended, and they bicker (good-naturedly) more often than not, and every moment isn’t consumed by the need to hold and be held, to touch and be touched. He knows this because this love he has for Chirrut isn’t new or exciting, not at all, but it is old and familiar and a comfort on cold nights.

Love is picking the hsuaberries (to which Chirrut is allergic) off his partner’s breakfast, and getting a small pile of tok nuts on his own dinner plate that evening.

Love is Chirrut reaching out to feel the crinkles at his eyes when he laughs, delicate and reverent.

It’s going easy on Chirrut and letting him win at chess, if only to see the other man giggle in delight as he moves his final piece. Besides, Baze is no wookie: he’s not so bad a loser as to rip the arm off whoever beats him.

It’s Chirrut pulling the blanket a little higher on his shoulder when he shivers in the chill of the night, and him sneaking Chirrut an extra pillow from the stockroom because “these bunks are so damn firm, Baze, like sleeping on a rock.”

It’s fond smiles and gentle teasing and fingers interlocking and a million other small gestures that make them _them_ , and there isn’t a thing Baze would change.

 

 

*****

 

 

Baze is twenty-nine, and love is a solemn vow. It’s two hands clasped in his, it’s words of love spoken in soft, reverent tones as the kyber watches over them.

It’s a guarantee, a promise that they’ll never let each other go.

 

 

*****

 

 

Baze is thirty-two, and he doesn’t know what love is anymore.

All he knows is that it hurts so, so much, and he would give anything to have it taken from him.

He sits in a shadowy, dusty alley in Jedha City and watches numbly as his bloodstained hands shake. Chirrut is next to him, speaking softly, but Baze cannot hear him, cannot think beyond the images flashing through his head.

It had all happened so quickly: news had come that the Jedi had fallen, that the clone army had betrayed them, and the next day they’d come for the temple.

There had been no time to prepare: the troopers had come, their commanders demanding access to the temple, and the elders had refused.

Then had come the guns, and the grenades, and then Baze was watching as the outer walls of his home began to crumble.

The troopers had been shooting on sight; then suddenly, a great explosion, and  - that was where the children were, that was where they played, where they studied, it couldn’t be - please, please, in the name of the Force -

Baze had never run so fast in his entire life, but he’d been too late, too late -

They’d been so young, practically infants, the youngest had only been five years old, and oh force, there was Nive, he’d been practicing for his seventh duan only yesterday - and Sareet, covered in -

Baze doesn’t know how many troopers he’d killed. He hardly remembers picking up the gun, or even the first time he pulled the trigger. Chirrut had taken his arm, had told him they could not win, the clones were endless, they had to fall back, to hide, _please Baze, come with me…_

The knee-weakening relief he’d felt this afternoon at seeing Chirrut, bloody yet whole, has faded, and in its place is a guilt he cannot escape; he couldn’t protect him, couldn’t protect any of them, not the elders, of the children or Chirrut. He has blood on his hands, shed not out of a need to defend but a need for vengeance.

There’s a resentment like he’s never known growing within Baze, though not towards Chirrut,

Toward the Force itself.

The Force was meant to protect them, to bring balance to their lives. But not three hours ago Baze had watched this family he’s made, a family who’d dedicated their lives to the Force itself, be torn apart, slaughtered as they tried to protect their precious Kyber Temple.

And where had the Force been? Where had it been when the Guardians had needed it? When Baze’s _children_ had needed it?

They’d been betrayed, all of them, and Baze’s faith had shattered the moment he saw his younglings fall.

 

 

*****

 

 

Baze is thirty-four, and love is forgiveness; unselfish and undeserving.

He’s been gone for almost two years, now, driven away by his own anger and grief in the wake of a spectacular row with Chirrut.

They’d spent two months trying to reclaim the temple, and another coming to terms with the finality of the loss of their home; through it all Chirrut had maintained that all was as the Force willed it, that they were still one with the Force.

Baze had, for the first time, really fought Chirrut, raged and seethed and cursed his beloved Force until they’d both been in tears, until he’d been hoarse from yelling.

And then he’d been gone, off to some hot, distant moon to fight with rebels and hunt down separatist scum, until his hatred and his agony and desperation for revenge had wrung him dry, until there was nothing left but a hollow, lonely bitterness.

He’s a shell of the man he used to be, an assassin who’s killed more men than he’s saved. He wonders if Chirrut will even recognize him like this, with his soul so tainted and broken. Surely if Chirrut can sense Baze in the force, like he’s always said he could, he will know within moments that his partner has become nothing more than a hardened thug, and will want nothing to do with him.

But he’s tired, so very tired, and he’s missed Chirrut with every breath he’s taken these past two years.

When he finally finds Chirrut, Baze can hardly speak, so overcome with sorrow and regret and joy at seeing him once again.

“Chirrut, I…” He starts to apologize, tears in his eyes, but he’s cut off as the blind man pulls him into a tight embrace.

“I knew you would come back. I never doubted you for a moment,” Chirrut whispers fiercely, his own voice thick with emotion.

Baze buries his face in Chirrut’s neck, breathing him in as he tries to keep from weeping. He wishes, not for the first time, that he were a more eloquent man, that he could articulate how much it means to him to have Chirrut in his arms again, how very sorry he is to have left, how unspeakably happy he is to be with him once more.

Chirrut pulls back, reaching up to run his hands along Baze’s cheeks, frowning softly at the new scars and wrinkles. Baze leans into the touch, reaching up to hold the hand against his face. Chirrut wipes away a stray tear before kissing him, as if he’s still something precious and worth loving.

It is much later, when they’re curled up together in the small room Chirrut has procured for himself, that Baze apologizes for what he’d said about the Force. He is no longer a man of faith, has not one ounce of belief left in him, but he’d hurt Chirrut that day, and if there’s one thing he cannot live with, it’s hurting Chirrut.

The blind man admits that he himself has had a hard time overcoming his own doubts, but that he’s come out of it with more faith in the Force than ever before. Baze, shocked that Chirrut’s belief could ever waver, asks what it was that made him so confident in the Force after such uncertainty.

Chirrut smiles, reaching up and brushing his fingers through Baze’s hair. “The Force brought you home to me.”

 

*****

  


Baze is fifty-two, he knows what love is; he’s known for a long time now.

It is, just as it always has been, Chirrut Imwe.

 

**Author's Note:**

> and then they life happily ever after and nothing bad ever happens...sike
> 
> title from the musical waitress


End file.
